Raven's Mountain by Orr Wendy Page B

waterfall.
    I can’t stop staring and wondering what would happen if I jumped in. If I had a raft like in our Huck Finn play, I’d whoosh down and over the next waterfall, then the next . . .
    . . . but even white water rafters wouldn’t go down that Niagara.
    Anyway, the bridge is easy! says Amelia. It’s twenty times wider than the fence!
    Amelia and I used to tightrope walk my back-yard fence, dipping our legs and pointing our toes gracefully as ballerinas. By the end of summer we could walk right around the garden without falling off. The last time we did it, Amelia turned a cartwheel. She landed on her feet, still on the fence. ‘Dare you!’ she said.
    I’d barely brought my arms up when Mum stepped out the back door. ‘Don’t even think about it, Raven O’Connor!’
    â€˜I’ll skip the cartwheel,’ I promise Mum now.
    The next rock’s wide and flat, the same kind of reddish granite as the edge of the bank, as if it used to be part of the same piece. Stepping across the gap is as easy as stepping down from a stool onto the floor: the rock is dry, and I don’t even need my arms for balance.
    But the thing about prehistoric, rock-building beavers is that they’ve got a sense of humour. See, you can do it , they tease, making sure that the next rock’s nearly touching the second one, except that it’s tilted on its side, and the one after that is tilted the other way. And the spray’s getting splashier, running over the top of the slippery rocks.
    Just like walking the fence and running through the sprinkler at the same time.
    The next rock is small and tippy, and the only way to keep my balance is to keep on going.
    Don’t think about falling!
    Move fast, jump over foaming white water, onto the last rock. It’s flat and solid and now there’s just one more giant step to the other side. Take a deep breath . . .
    . . . into the world’s splashiest, scariest, back belly flop.
    The river thumps me hard between the shoulders. It whacks the breath right out of me; I’m gasping, gurgling, and going under, blind in the frothing water. The whirlpool is dragging me wherever it wants; I can’t tell which way is up and I can’t go on fighting . . .
    No! No, no, NO! I don’t want to die!
    Kicking and thrashing, I fight my way up. My fingers hit rock. There’s still no air; my lungs are going to burst.
    I’m upside down!
    I somersault and kick off from the rock. This time I   break through the surface into fresh air. I gasp it in, spit out water and sick; my lungs hurt as if they’ve already forgotten how to breathe.
    Tread water, keep your head up!
    I’m trying, I’m trying , but the creek’s swirling me down towards the next waterfall . . .
    . . . and over it, tumbling under the water again, spinning in the whirlpools, kicking through spray.
    I’m only two metres from the shore. If I could just catch my breath . . .
    Too late.
    That was the last little fall before the Niagara, and fighting my way up again has taken my last bit of air. I’m whirling like a leaf; the bank is still only a couple of metres away, but it might as well be a hundred. The current’s never going to let me go.
    I take a deep breath: I’m going over the edge.

17

ABOUT 4:10 SATURDAY AFTERNOON
    I’m under the water, spinning like a rag doll in a washing machine . . . ‘OOF!’
    Someone’s thumped me in the stomach. Grabbed me and hauled me out.
    Black spots dance in front of my eyes.
    I can’t see or think or hear. Can’t do anything except throw up. I’ve swallowed litres of river, and every drop of it is shooting back up again. Stuff’s spurting out of my nose too; my stomach’s cramping and the rest of me feels like a giant’s punching bag.
    And I’m alone. It’s a tree that saved me: a dead, fallen-over tree with its roots on the bank, its branches in the river,